Think About It
by Dream Writer 4 Life
Summary: When Sydney and Vaughn discover a mutual love for poetry, Sydney decides to play a game involving her feelings towards him that's leads up to New Year's Eve. Pure fluff; features poems by Emily Dickinson. A Dream Writer Experience.


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Title: Think About It

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Author: Dream Writer 4 Life

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Rating: PG-13 for language

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Genre: Angst/Romance

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Timeline/Spoilers: Pre-Phase One

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'Shippers' Paradise: S/V with remnants of V/A

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Archived: FanFiction.Net, SD-1, and Hopes 'N Dreams 'R Us. Anywhere, just ask and you shall receive!

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Summary: When Sydney and Vaughn discover a mutual love for poetry, Sydney decides to play a game involving her feelings towards him that leads up to New Year's Eve. A Dream Writer Experience.

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Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Period. End of story. Wait, no it's not! Keep reading! The poems are Emily Dickinson's.

Think About It

"Is that all?"

"Yeah, I think that just about wraps it up."

"Good. I promised I'd help Will and Francie start planning the restaurant's New Year's Eve party." Sydney sighed. She had always hated New Year's, especially after Danny's death. Always the lonely girl in the corner without a guy, watching her friends get kissed as the clock struck midnight. Blech. Just thinking about it made her nose crinkle in disgust.

Vaughn's brow furrowed. "Something particularly wrong with New Year's Eve parties? Or just planning them?" He began the habitual task of weeding out the documents he needed to take home from the ones that needed shredding. He was not paying attention, though; for all he knew he could have been shredding his paycheck. All of his efforts were focused on Sydney and what she had to say; any mere glimpse into her personal life was like a shaft of sunlight through a cloud.

Sydney shrugged in indifference, not wishing to discuss her datelessness woes with _him_. Coming off too needy was the last thing she wanted to do. To change the subject she asked politely, "So what are you doing for New Year's?"

"Oh," He answered a bit off-guard. "Well, I think I'm supposed to do something with Alice. She mentioned once that she had wanted to go out on a boat in the San Francisco Bay and watch the fireworks. But she hasn't called me in a few days. Or maybe I was supposed to call her—" He knew he was rambling. His last sentence trailed off into an uncomfortable silence in which the only sound heard was that of his rustling papers. Suddenly, his hand alighted upon a book bound in leather, and he was about to throw it away in his carelessness before she stopped him.

"What's that? Looks pretty important."

He ceased sorting and ran his fingers over the cover, tracing the inset, golden letters as if seeing them for the first time. "This? It was my father's. My mother gave it to me for Christmas the year my father died. Classic poetry was one of his loves. Huh. I forgot I even had that here."

"Maybe you ought to clean your desk more often," Syd commented, cracking a small smile before glancing at the cover. "Emily Dickinson? She's one of my favourites. Her and Poe. Don't ask me why; they're as different as can be, yet equally extraordinary. Do you like her work?"

"Yeah. I used to read it all the time," Vaughn nodded placidly. "Which is why I'm really surprised I forgot I brought it." He paused for a moment in thought. "'Faith is a fine invention for gentlemen who see—"

"'—But microscopes are prudent in an emergency!'" She finished, smiling widely. The two shared a short-lived, bubbly laugh that simmered into silence. Colour seeped into her cheeks as he gently placed the thick volume into his briefcase. Turning her wrist to glance at her watch she exclaimed, "Oh gosh! I didn't know it was so late! I gotta run. I'll see ya later."

"Yeah," He answered, a bit flat. "And happy New Year, if I don't see you before then."

She paused in her tracks with her back turned to him. Was she imagining it, or was there a note of reluctance in his voice? Or was it sorrow? Looking over her shoulder she replied, "You too. Have fun with Alice." It was almost as if she _enjoyed_ hurting herself.

The sharp click of her heels on the granite floor announced her departure; he sighed and collapsed in his desk chair. Another opportunity lost; chalk that one up along with the billions of other missed ones. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he almost slammed his head against his desk in anger. He had made up the story about Alice, why was anyone's guess. The truth was she had wanted to ring in the new year with a group of girlfriends at her apartment; she had even given him her blessing if he wanted to spend his time at a bar with Weiss. Maybe he had told the lie to try and get her riled up, jealousy flashing in her eyes. What would have been gained by telling the truth? Her pity? He didn't want that. What he wanted was something that went against every written rule he knew and complied with every rule he knew in his heart.

* * *

Sydney Bristow slid gracefully into the driver's seat of her car but did not put the key in the ignition; she was too distracted to drive at the moment. What was this feeling she had? Rage? Sadness? Jealousy? She could not figure out which carefully planned compartment it fit into; it had no name. After wrestling with it for ten minutes, she finally decided that she was tardy enough and started the vehicle. Pulling out into the street, she began to replay the entire conversation, picking out when and where she had gone wrong. When she came to their brief discussion of Emily Dickinson, she had a sudden epiphany that erased most of her frustration. Whipping her cell phone out of her coat pocket, she dialed the familiar number.

"Francie? It's Syd. Sorry I didn't call earlier; I got held up at the bank…No, not literally! Since I'm so late, I'm just gonna go home and get dinner ready. And I've got some really important paperwork to do, so I might be at the library for a little bit. I'll see ya later. Bye."

* * *

"Hello?"

"Joey's Pizza?"

"Sorry. Wrong number." Vaughn stared at the phone. Usually he was on the other side of that brief conversation. Something big must be up for Sydney to call _him_. He clicked off the TV, closed the leather-bound book he was reading, and began to pull on his shoes and coat. Right on cue, Donovan came waddling up to him, leash in mouth, an expectant look upon his furry face.

"Sorry, boy. We're not going for a walk right now. Syd's got an emergency." His dog seemed to nod and trotted away just as happily as before, his spirits not dampened in the least. Vaughn practically raced to the warehouse, averaging at least thirty miles over the speed limit for the majority of the trip despite the rush hour traffic. He flew through the door but adopted a hurried walk soon after, not wanting to appear too eager or enthusiastic. Half-expecting to see a puffy-eyed, sobbing Sydney, he received a rude awakening when he was greeted by…no one. After checking the rafters twice and even allowing himself to wait twenty minutes in case she got caught in traffic, he sighed in defeat. Maybe there really _was_ a Joey's Pizza and someone really _had_ called for them and it really _was_ a wrong number.

Just as he was about to leave, something on the table caught his attention. It was an old piece of paper. It appeared to be yellowed by age, the edges frayed, blackened, and torn. The script on the page was scribed with a calligraphy pen in writing that seemed familiar, but then again…was not. It read:

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'"Our lives are Swiss, —

So still, so cool,

Till, some odd afternoon,

The Alps neglect their curtains,

And we look farther on.

'"Italy stands the other side,

While, like a guard between,

The solemn Alps,

The siren Alps,

Forever intervene!"

'Think about…it.'

There was a word scratched out between 'about' and 'it' that looked suspiciously like — "No," He said aloud, his soft whisper echoing in the empty warehouse. "No way. No fucking way." Not daring to touch the paper a moment longer lest it disintegrate in his very hands, he dropped it onto the table unceremoniously. He needed some help on this one. So he called the greatest interpreter who ever lived.

"Weiss? Get your ass down to the warehouse; I need some help."

* * *

"Well, what do you make of it?"

"I don't know," Weiss answered, circling the table for what seemed like the hundredth time. "Man, you're the smart one! What the hell did you call me for?"

Vaughn sighed, perching himself on the edge of the table. "Because you're the womanizer. I thought…maybe you could tell me what she meant."

"A woman sent you this?" Vaughn nodded. He purposely neglected to tell his best friend _which_ woman. "And you're getting all worried over a woman? Aw, my little Mikey is growing up! I feel so proud!" He joked, slapping an arm around Mike's shoulders. Vaughn continued to be focused on the situation at hand and reminded Eric of it. Sobering, Weiss handled the piece of paper again. Sniffing it he commented, "Tea. Whoever she was used tea to get it to look like this. She burned the edges with a lighter, too."

"I guessed as much, Eric."

Weiss sighed in thought. "Did Alice give you this?" Vaughn shook his head, trying to appear as innocent and knowledge-free as possible. "I could have answered that. That woman doesn't have the brains to pull off something as deep as this," Eric spat venomously. 

Vaughn rolled his eyes. He knew Weiss had a deep dislike for his pseudo-not-really-girlfriend, but was in no mood to deal with an anti-Alice harangue at the moment. There were more important things to deal with at the time; namely this poem.

Eric sighed heavily. "I have no idea what it means, Mike. I don't like poetry. I don't even like reading!"

"Yeah, I know. Thanks anyway, Eric. I'll see ya later." Refusing to put a crease in the piece of paper, he walked out of the warehouse with it in hand, not bothering with a second glance at Weiss. Eric shrugged, deciding to leave his friend with his "problem."

When Vaughn reentered his apartment, he immediately darted towards his bookcase. He took out every single poetry book he owned and stacked it by category in alphabetical order. After re-writing the poem in his own hand, he just stared at the original copy, willing the hidden messages and symbols to come out of the woodwork. When he could no longer ignore the gnawing hunger in his stomach, he abandoned his task to warm up some spaghetti leftovers from a week ago. He leaned against the stove, thoughtfully slurping up the rubbery noodles, not caring if the red marinara sauce splattered all over his white work shirt. A thought had just occurred to him. Why did he care so much about this poem? Why was he obsessed with cracking Sydney's secret meaning? Was he looking for the romantic message that he hoped she returned? The thought that he feared most broke upon him last: was he alluding himself? Maybe this was to quash his feelings for her, to subtly tell him that she did not return his love. Tossing the half-eaten spaghetti into the cluttered sink, he hurried back over to his desk to pour over the poem one more time. He held his head in his hands, wondering why for the life of him he could not seem to get a breakthrough; he had cracked harder codes that this before, so why was this any different? Because it could possibly involve his love life?

He was suddenly jolted from his deep thoughts by something tugging on the leg of his slacks. Looking down, Vaughn saw Donovan with a packet of papers in his mouth, drooling like they were a slab of steak. Groaning slightly, he gingerly plucked the soaked papers from his dog's mouth, cleared a space on the desktop, and spread them out to dry. He took out a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed at the pools of drool. When he realized what the papers were, he gasped and forgot to reprimand his dog for…being a dog. 

"Oh, my gosh. Good boy, Donovan," He said distractedly. The thick packet of papers happened to be the CIA book of protocols that he was given the first day on the job. It must have fallen off of the bookshelf in his rush. He opened the packet to the first page: the table of contents. One of the only lines that had not been blurred by his dog's bodily secretions was the listing for relationship protocols.

"Holy shit."

Flinging the dripping packet aside, he pulled the original copy of the poem towards him. Why had he not noticed it before? The words "Swiss," "Alps," and "Italy" were all written in different ink: if the light hit them the right way they almost looked green. Donovan nudged Vaughn's foot with his pudgy snout, prodding his master to think further into the coincidence. Vaughn shifted his gaze to the large pamphlet, trying to find a possible connection between the two writings. Finally, it clicked. Turning to Donovan, he let out a triumphantly exuberant laugh.

"I got it! We are Swiss, protocol is the Alps, and love is Italy! It all makes sense now!" His dog looked on blankly. "Don't you get it? 'Our lives are Swiss': the Swiss are neutral, platonic. Sydney and I are Swiss right now! 'While, like a guard between…The siren Alps forever intervene': protocol gets in the way. 'Italy stands the other side': love is just beyond…but the protocol keeps getting in the way! Damn it!" He suddenly exclaimed, slamming his fist down upon the desk and causing the small Pit-Bull to jump. "So in other words, we would be together if it wasn't for the goddamn rules. Leave it to Syd to point out the blatantly obvious."

He paused for a moment. "Wait a second. Does that mean she loves me even though we…" Vaughn trailed off, his eyes widening slightly. Donovan barked in response. "Aw, hell yes!" He pumped his fist into the air as a sign of victory. After a brief pat on the back, he settled down again. How was he going to respond to this? An open declaration of adoration was not going to work; that was what the poem meant. The best course of action, he decided, was to mimic her, play Sydney's little mind games. Because _no one_ beat Michael Vaughn at mind games. He searched out the familiar leather-bound book he had rediscovered that afternoon. If she wanted Dickinson, then she would get it.

* * *

"Hi."

"Hey." The two smiled at each other, despite the various onlookers that could be observing their conversation at any given moment.

"You wanted to talk to me about my mother?"

He cleared his throat. "Yeah. About that—"

"Vaughn!" A voice shouted from behind the pair. They both turned around to see Weiss jogging towards them. "Hey, buddy — Oh, sorry. Am I interrupting something important?"

"Um, y—"

"Nope," Vaughn quickly answered, cutting Sydney off. This was the perfect diversion. Now he would discreetly slip the paper into the folder… "Go ahead."

"Well, I was just wondering if you ever found out what that poem meant," Eric whispered, leaning in a bit closer. "It was bugging me all night…Well, not really, but it sounded like the right thing to say."

Vaughn shook his head while smiling internally. "No. I'm still working on it. You'll be the first to know once I crack it."

Weiss nodded. "Cool. Mike, Agent Bristow."

Sydney cocked her head to one side, regarding her handler as he sifted through a stack of papers. So he had not figured it out yet; she had done better than she had expected. Although it was slightly disappointing that when he was off the clock, his brain switched off as well. "So. You were saying?"

He finally produced a manila folder and handed it to her. "Here ya go. This is just some random follow-up work from—" His mind went temporarily blank; he panicked "—Devlin. Take it home, bring it back tomorrow, and we'll go from there."

"But that has nothing to do with my—"

"Now, if you'll excuse me." Vaughn stood up and buttoned his suit jacket importantly. He needed to make a clean and speedy escape. "I'll see you tomorrow." With his signature bashful grin he exited, leaving Sydney alone by his desk. She looked after him questioningly but did not call out.

* * *

"Francie?"

"Yeah, Syd?" She answered from the kitchen. Sydney slogged through the door, lugging her gym bag, purse, coat, and briefcase in her arms. Francie rushed to help, taking her coat and gym bag and laying them on the couch. "What's up?"

Syd sighed, drawing from her acting skills to fool her friend. "I have so much paperwork to do for the bank, I'll still be doing it when you plan next year's New Year's Eve party."

Her best friend shrugged it off. "That's cool. I understand. I need to get over to the restaurant anyway. We were in the middle of creating a new recipe when I left."

"Well, when you perfect your latest culinary masterpiece, don't forget to bring your best friend home a piece/slice/cup/batch." The two smiled at each other for a moment before Francie grabbed her coat and keys and headed out the door.

Sydney sat down at the desk in her room, slumping on a pile of textbooks. Deciding to forget about her latest dissertation, she extracted the folder Vaughn had given her (rather hastily, in her opinion) at the Ops Centre. It felt oddly thin; when she opened it up she discovered why: there was only one slip of paper inside. Smiling, she smoothed it out and read aloud:

"'"_If you were coming in the fall, _

I'd brush the summer by

With half a smile and half a spurn, 

As housewives do a fly.

'"If I could see you in a year,

I'd wind the months in balls, 

And put them each in separate drawers,

Until their time befalls.

'"If only centuries delayed, 

I'd count them on my hand,

Subtracting 'til my fingers dropped

Into Van Diemen's land.

'"If certain, when this life was out,

That yours and mine should be,

I'd toss it yonder like a rind,

And taste eternity.

'"But now, all ignorant of the length

Of times uncertain wing.

It goads me, like the goblin bee,

That will not state its sting.'"

'Think about it: with the heart, not the head this time.

'—M.V.

'PS: Damn the Alps; embrace the Italians.' So Mr. Vaughn has decided to play my game." She was whispering to herself: her throat was obstructed by something. The fact that he had picked that particular poem tore at her heart. She wanted to jump into her car, race to the warehouse, and accost Mister Michael Vaughn with her lips. The Italian in them needed to be expressed, and if this was the only way they could do it…well, she wasn't doing the cabbage patch, but it was better than nothing. Sighing dreamily, she slowly sat back into her chair, closing her eyes to reality and opening them to her dreams, in which she and Michael could be together without the entire Alpine Mountain Range standing in their way. When her eyelids fluttered open and she drifted back down, Sydney realized she was shaking with rapture. It was amazing how profound an affect this one man had on her entire being, entire life. She had not felt this way since…since Danny had written her the first of many love letters.

__

'This man is not only my guardian angel; he's my soul mate, my hero, my saviour.'

But after their mutual silent confessions of enamorment, how were things supposed to go back to normal? How were they supposed to conduct themselves around others when all they wanted to do was touch, kiss? How were they supposed to talk to the other person without worrying that the wrong words could come spewing out at any time? Abruptly, she knew that she did not want things to go back to normal. Normal meant not having feelings for her handler, not having this exhilarating feeling, and not playing this wonderful game she created. Speaking of which—

She had almost forgotten to make her next move. Opening the top right-hand drawer, she removed a book and started flipping through the pages.

* * *

A folder suddenly appeared an inch in front of his nose. "Done." He looked up to see a slyly smiling Agent Bristow with the outstretched folder. "Here ya go. Anything else you want me to do?"

"No, that's all. You can go home," Vaughn replied, cautiously taking back the papers. His thumb accidentally ran over the back of her hand, causing twin sets of goosepimples to rise over both of their arms. "It's the day before New Years; if you don't get called in to SD-6, then there's no reason for you to be here. Take the next few days off, until further notice. If you have an emergency, you know the number."

She nodded, tucking an errant stand of hair behind her ear. "Alright. Happy New Year." Sydney tried to walk away without looking back, but she could not resist. Looking over her shoulder at him discretely, she caught him staring at her on her way out. She winked before turning the corner.

Trying not to seem too eager, he opened the folder and found his same poem staring him back in the face. Had she been leading him on? Was there some sort of twisted ulterior motive to her seemingly harmless game? But he was jumping to conclusions; turning over the sheet, there was another muddled concoction of rhymes that made him want to chase her down. He read:

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'"Oh, Signor, thine the amber hand,

And mine the distant sea, —

Obedient to the least command

Thine eyes impose on me."

'"And were you saved,

And I condemned to be

Where you were not,

That self were hell to me."

'"I envy seas whereupon he rides,

I envy spokes of wheels

Of chariots that him convey,

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I envy speechless hills

'"**That gaze upon his journey;**

How easy all can see 

What is forbidden utterly

As heaven unto me!

'"I envy nests of sparrows

That dot his distant eaves,

The wealthy fly upon his pane,

The happy, happy leaves

'"That just abroad his window

Have summer's leave to be,

The earrings of Pizarro

Could not obtain for me.

'"I envy light that wakes him,

And bells that boldly ring

To tell him it is noon abroad, —

Myself his noon could bring,

'"Yet interdict my blossom

And abrogate my bee,

Lest noon in everlasting night

Drop Gabriel and me.

'Think about it. Don't give up on fantasy, but don't forget about reality. Don't let the Alps (or any other "a") influence your heart or your actions.

'—S.B.'

He frowned. _'"Or any other "a""?'_ What did she mean by that? There was no other — _'Oh. Shit!'_ In the past few days, he had forgotten about Alice entirely, too caught up in the blithe, blissful action that was loving Sydney Bristow. But now that the time came, the decision did not seem all that hard to make; it was as if the decision had already been made without his knowledge.

But Vaughn had left his Emily Dickinson book of poems at his apartment. Damn! How was he going to reply with his answer to her implied question? Settling back into his chair, he weighed his limited number of possibilities. He could pull the Joey's Pizza thing. _'No. Too predictable.'_ Write a poem off the top of his head. _'Hell no! Let's not even go into how badly I write!'_ How about — _'Yes! I'll do that!'_ Michael decided, mentally slamming his fist down on a table. It was settled. And he only had one day to prepare.

* * *

"Syd? Are you ready? There's only five minutes left 'til midnight! Aren't you so excited?" Her best friend squealed to her as she breezed past, dancing with some guy she had met that night. Sydney nodded her head, plastering a fake smile on her face before taking a sip of her champagne. There she was, alone again, less than five minutes 'til the new year. That did not bother her so much as the fact that she had not heard a peep from Vaughn since the moment she had given him the last poem. Had he really chosen Alice over her? That skinny, weak, twittering _girl_?! _'Relax, Sydney,'_ She told herself. _'Maybe he just needs some time to decide.'_ But that did not stop her from worrying.

One minute. One minute and this custom-made hell would be over. One minute and she could _go home_…even if it was to an empty apartment. Sighing, she set her empty glass onto a table and backed her way to a wall. Somewhere around forty seconds, an arm slid around her waist and pulled her into the corner behind a potted plant. Her eyes lit up as she realized who it was. "Vaughn! How—" He silenced her by placing a finger against her lips; she smiled brightly against it. As the clock wound down, their lips gradually became closer and closer until —

"…One…Happy New Year!" The cry rose up from the crowd, and everyone grabbed someone else for that coveted kiss. But Sydney and Michael had begun five seconds early; they were not able to wait any longer. They'd been waiting for nearly two years. As couples around the room began to break apart, the traditional "Auld Lang Syne" rose up over the noisemakers. But Sydney and Michael still held on as if depending on the other to live. So it would be for many hard, trying, troubling, but immensely rewarding years to come. As the old year was ushered out, a new, earth-shattering relationship had started, the story of which would be the stuff of legend: two spies, one love, one hope for a better, safer future.


End file.
